by Jessie Keane
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bray,’ said the doctor to his back.
Cornelius turned and looked at the little man. ‘Get out of my house,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Get out of my house you bastard!’ he roared.
The doctor gave him one last startled look and then hurried off down the stairs. He crossed the hall, and went quickly out of the door. It closed behind him. Into the silence came the sounds of Vanessa sobbing, and the muffled, soothing tones of Mrs Hayter as she tried to comfort her.
40
When he was sure that Vanessa was asleep and that Mrs Hayter was sitting with her, he walked out into the star-studded night and trudged down the long drive to the gatehouse, lit up like a ship at sea in an ocean of darkness. He knocked on the door, then put his key in the lock and entered.
‘Is that you, dear?’ came Lady Bray’s voice, from the sitting room.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he called back, and went in.
The fire was blazing away in the hearth and his mother was sitting in the same chair where she always sat, her elegant silver chignon glinting in the firelight, her chin sharply pointed, her blue eyes intense. She was working on a piece of bright floral tapestry on a frame, with her glasses slipping down her nose. She peered up at him over the top of them and said: ‘What’s the matter?’ when she saw his face.
Cornelius slumped down on the sofa, dropped his head into his hands. He sat like that for long moments. Finally he let his hands fall between his knees and stared at her.
‘She’s lost the baby,’ he said starkly.
‘What?When?Why didn’t that stupid Hayter woman come and get me . . . ?’
‘This afternoon. I got back from the city to find the doctor there.’
‘But Hayter should have told me.’
‘I don’t think there was time. When I got home, it was all over.’
‘How ghastly for you,’ said his mother, with sympathy. ‘And poor Vanessa.’
Cornelius looked at his mother. She had never really liked Vanessa, had said before their marriage took place that Vanessa was not good stock: too skinny and nervy.
‘Look at those hips,’ she had said to him. ‘Those are not good child-bearing hips.’
‘She’s heartbroken,’ he said.
But he had once fallen in love with Vanessa’s delicacy, her frailty. He felt big and strong with her. Only after the marriage did he discover that they were badly matched physically. He’d had to take his pleasures elsewhere – so what? Many other men did the same.
‘Well, of course she is, the poor girl.’ But he could see in his mother’s steely eyes the thought that Vanessa’s inability to give birth was reprehensible. She had warned him about just this outcome.
Cornelius was aware that there was a weight of responsibility upon him. For four generations, Brays had bred to continue the line, producing the requisite number of children to be sure the family name would live on.
But now, this. If what the doctor had said was true and Vanessa couldn’t bear children at all, then what would become of the Bray line? Julianna, his sister, was married to Terence Wyatt, co-owner of a small merchant bank. But as yet there were no children. Perhaps there wouldn’t be. It was a bad situation.
‘And there’s something else, something unfortunate . . .’
‘Yes? Go on, dear.’ His mother’s head dipped as she applied herself to the tapestry. It was a ploy she often employed with her son: if he had to confess something, he found it easier if her eyes were focused elsewhere.
‘There’s a girl. She works at the Windmill Theatre, in town.’
‘A girl?’ She kept her head down. She knew her son had an excessively sexual nature: his father had been just the same.
‘It’s a bloody mess, I’m afraid. She’s pregnant.’
Now the eyes came up and fixed sharply on his face. ‘And it’s yours?’
He nodded. Much as he might bluster about this, he knew that Ruby would sleep with no one else. The silly girl actually loved him. And he cared for her, of course he did, but she was from a different class. She was just for fun, like all the other beautiful young girls and exquisite young boys he sometimes enjoyed. He was married, for God’s sake.
‘It’s mine. And her brother’s demanding payment from me.’
‘How much?’
‘He didn’t say. He said he’d be in touch, though. And he will be. I could see he meant it.’
‘Is she intending to keep the baby, this girl?’
‘Her brother says she’ll have it. I suppose they’ll get it adopted. She can’t keep it, after all. She’s a single woman.’
‘Oh.’ Then his mother said: ‘So you’ll have to pay him for . . . what? Their silence? Are they threatening to tell anyone about it?’
‘No. They’re not threatening that. They want Ruby compensated, that’s all.’ Cornelius let his head drop into his hands again. ‘What a mess.’
‘Look,’ said his mother, putting aside her tapestry, ‘you’re tired. You’re in no fit state to consider this right now. Eat something, get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll talk again.’
Cornelius ran his hands down over his face and looked at his mother. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
But tomorrow I still won’t know what to do.
‘Kiss me goodnight,’ she said, and offered up her cheek.
Dutifully, Cornelius kissed her, and left the room, and walked back up the drive to the house that meant so much to him, and to the woman who couldn’t even give him children to fill it.
His mother put aside her tapestry and stood up, stretching. Time for bed. Poor Cornelius, he never could see what was so plainly staring him in the face. The answer was obvious, and easy.
Tomorrow, she would explain it to him.
41
Charlie Darke’s boys, Chewy, Stevie and Ben, were coming out of the Rag and Staff after a late-night lock-in when the men grabbed them. It was ten on three, they were drunk and taken unawares. They never stood a chance.
They were kicked, punched insensible and then hustled into a motor and driven to an empty warehouse in the docks. Bleeding and semi-conscious, they were tied to chairs. Then a big dark-haired pop-eyed Italian came in and stood looking down at them.
‘Chewy Carson,’ he said, starting at the one on the left. His voice echoed around the cavernous building.
Chewy was bald with a long dour face and brown eyes. He had a habit of chewing the inside of his lip when he was nervous. He was nervous now. ‘That’s you, right?’
Chewy said nothing. He spat out a tooth. Blood spattered Astorre’s brightly polished shoes. Astorre smiled.
‘And you’re Stevie Boyd,’ he went on, looking at the man in the middle, a dumpy, curly-haired and plug-ugly individual.
‘So you must be Ben Morrison,’ said Astorre to the blond one seated on the right. ‘Been buying your wife presents, I hear.’
Ben said nothing. But he felt Stevie and Chewy’s eyes turn on him, felt their derision like the sting of a whip.
‘Been buying her fur coats,’ said Astorre.
Fucking Moira, thought Ben. She’d been bending his ear night and day until he’d caved in and bought her the damned coat. Then – all right, admitted – he’d looked at a few cars, where was the harm in that? Joe had marked his card over it . . . but too bloody late, by the look of things. Moira had her mink. And he was in the shit.
‘And I can’t help wondering,’ said Astorre, pacing around in front of the three bound men while his boys looked on, ‘where you got that sort of cash.’
Ben tried to shrug. It hurt.
‘There’s always cash floating about,’ he said.
‘Particularly in mail vans,’ said Astorre. ‘You did that job, am I right? With Charlie and Joe Darke. Yes?’
‘No,’ said Chewy. ‘Not us.’
‘No?’ Astorre stopped walking and stared hard at Chewy. Chewy could feel his heart beating so hard he thought he was about to faint. ‘You su
re?’ asked Astorre.
‘It wasn’t us,’ said Stevie, shooting a look at Ben that said: You fucking fool, we’ll get you for this.
‘Well, that’s a pity,’ sighed Astorre. His eyes were fastened on Chewy. ‘You want to change your mind on that?’ he asked.
Chewy shook his head: no. He was sweating; he stank of fear.
Astorre stepped closer. ‘Sure?’
Chewy shook his head again. Whatever these bastards did to them, it would be nothing compared to what Charlie would do if he kicked off.
‘Pity,’ said Astorre, putting his big hands around Chewy’s neck and starting to squeeze.
Chewy’s whole head went purple. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, his mouth turned down in a grimace of pain. Ben and Stevie started shouting. Astorre squeezed, harder and harder. A wheezing groan escaped Chewy.
‘No!’ howled Stevie, struggling against his bonds.
‘You can’t . . .’ Ben was about to spew in horror.
Astorre squeezed.
Chewy’s eyes closed and his head went forward. Urine dripped from his chair onto the concrete floor. Stevie and Ben watched, mouths open, not believing it.
Astorre stepped back, avoiding the pooling liquid on the floor. Then he turned to the other two.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Suppose one of you tells me where the two hundred thousand pounds you and Charlie and Joe nicked from the mail van is hidden?’
Ben somehow got his mouth to work. The bastard had killed Chewy.
‘They gave us three grand each,’ he gabbled. ‘Another three grand’s to come. Six in total for me and Stevie and . . . and Chewy.’
Chewy was never going to collect his final payment. Stevie stared at Ben with wild hatred. He’d killed them. Killed all three of them. All the for the sake of that thick grasping bint Moira.
‘And the rest?’ asked Astorre. ‘That’s just nine thousand accounted for so far, which leaves one hundred and ninety-one thousand still to come.’
‘It was divided between Charlie and Joe,’ said Ben, tears of anguish running down his face.
‘And where is it?’
Stevie and Ben exchanged desperate looks.
‘We don’t know,’ said Stevie. ‘That was the deal. Joe stashed his cut and Charlie hid his. Neither of them knows where the other’s stash is hidden. They thought that was safest. And they never told us the details. Why would they?’
Astorre thought about this. Then he smiled.
‘You’re lying,’ he said.
‘No!’ Ben sobbed. ‘No. We don’t know. We’d tell you if we did. But we don’t.’
Astorre stepped in close to Stevie, sitting between the corpse of his mate and the fool who’d betrayed him. Astorre flexed his fingers, like a concert pianist about to sit down and play.
‘Now. Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind about that?’ he asked.
Neither man spoke. They were dead already, they knew it. Ben shook his head, trying to choke back the tears. Astorre’s shadow fell over Stevie and he felt his bowels give way as Astorre’s big hands fastened around his neck.
‘Sure?’ said Astorre, his eyes locked on Stevie’s.
Stevie didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and prayed for death.
Astorre squeezed.
42
The van wasn’t in the pound any more.
‘Probably been scrapped,’ said the desk sergeant when Churcher and his superior showed up at the station to ask about it. ‘I’ll look into it, and get in touch.’
The desk sergeant had the air of a man who had too much trouble on his hands to handle even a tiny scrap more.
‘It’s important,’ said Churcher.
‘I’ll get in touch,’ repeated the man, his eyes fierce. ‘All right?’
‘Fuck it,’ said Churcher as they left the station. There went his dreams of promotion. There went all the things he’d planned. That bastard wouldn’t even bother, he’d just leave it a few days and say the damned thing couldn’t be found. He said as much to his sergeant.
‘Nah, we’ll take it further. Don’t worry. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.’
But Churcher was afraid that, in the overwhelming confusion of wartime, they never would. That Charlie Darke and his mob were going to walk about scot-free for the rest of their days. One of the two badly injured postal workers had recovered, but the other poor sod was a vegetable now, eating baby food and shitting into a nappy. Someone had to pay. And he just knew they’d done that heist.
Yeah, but prove it.
Without that van, they couldn’t. If the van had been scrapped, that was the end of the line.
Nobody piled on weight under rationing, but Vi had wondered if the increase in Ruby’s girth could be put down to all the fine dining she’d done with Cornelius. She didn’t think so. And then Betsy, flapping the lip as always, let slip the real problem.
‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ Vi asked Ruby straight out, backstage one day.
Ruby looked like she’d swallowed her tongue, her expression was so shocked.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Vi. ‘How much longer did you think you were going to keep it hidden, for God’s sake? Betsy’s told me the whole sorry tale. Couldn’t wait to spill the beans. Looked all sad about it, but I know her. She’s pleased as punch. Thinks you’ve got your just desserts for being a bigger pal to me than to her.’
Ruby didn’t know what to say. She didn’t give a fuck about Betsy any more, Betsy with her wheedling treacherous ways. After this evening’s performance, she was going to meet Cornelius for dinner. But this was to be no romantic candlelit assignation. Cornelius had suggested something to her, something truly shocking. And tonight, she was going to meet him, and they were going to discuss things.
It all sounded so logical, so reasonable, when Cornelius explained the plan to her. Yet in her head, Ruby was screaming, This can’t be happening.
‘I suppose it’s his?’ asked Vi.
Ruby nodded dumbly.
‘Well, what are you going to do? Get rid of it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t leave it too long, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘You have to do something. Make up your mind.’ Vi took hold of Ruby’s shoulders and stared into her frightened eyes. ‘You have to take control in these situations, Ruby.’
Ruby stared at Vi. She’d tried to take control, to bust out of the prison of her family life. Look what had happened.
‘He doesn’t want to know, I suppose. He’s had his fun,’ sighed Vi.
Ruby stood up. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she snapped, and walked away.
43
Cornelius was outside the Windmill after the evening performance, with a taxi waiting. Without a word being spoken between them, he and Ruby got in and were driven to a hotel he had never yet taken Ruby to: five-star, flunkies everywhere, all waiting on your every whim.
They went up to the suite, and stepped inside.
Sick with nerves, Ruby stared at the woman sitting on one of the gold-brocade couches. She had a fine face, delicately boned, and a light thin frizz of blonde hair. Her eyes were pale. The woman looked up at the two of them as they came in. Her bony hands were clenched in her lap. She was elegantly dressed – obviously a lady. She got to her feet.
She looks even more terrified than I feel, thought Ruby.
Cornelius took off his coat and walked over to the woman and kissed her cheek.
Lady Bray had put Cornelius straight. He had railed against the idea at first, said she was mad, that this was crazy, but when he calmed down he had to admit that there was a grain of perfect sense in it. Of course, he didn’t want to admit to his mother that Ruby was – well, not black but certainly just a little dark – no need to complicate matters. And in any case, he’d already resolved any problems on that issue in his own mind.
The woman didn’t smile or even acknowledge the fact that he’d kissed her. She was staring at Ruby in
shock.
‘But . . . Cornelius, she’s a darkie,’ said Vanessa.
‘She’s not that dark,’ he objected swiftly. ‘Just a little, perhaps. Look, I’ve thought this through – it won’t be a problem. The Bray family traits are very dominant, you know they are. We’re all robust, blue-eyed, blond-haired. Like me and Julianna. As I’m sure my son will be.’
There was a short silence. The two women went on staring at each other.
‘Vanessa, this is Ruby. Ruby Darke.’
‘Good Lord, how apt,’ sneered Vanessa.
Cornelius ignored that. ‘And this is my wife, Vanessa,’ he told Ruby.
Trembling, that horrible word darkie still ringing in her brain, Ruby crossed the room and held out her hand. Vanessa looked at it, ignored it, and sat down again. ‘Shall I send for tea?’ she asked Cornelius.
He shook his head. Ruby’s hand dropped to her side. Her cheeks were burning. He gestured for Ruby to sit down opposite his wife.
‘This is awkward,’ he said, and Ruby felt a sharp pang of irritation with him. Awkward? This was excruciating. ‘But we have to meet, all three of us, don’t we? And we have to discuss the baby Ruby is carrying.’
‘Because it’s yours,’ said his wife, eyeing him coldly.
Vanessa had been furious and hurt when he’d first confessed his sins to her. But his mother had spoken to her. His mother was always right, and she was right about this. It was the perfect solution. If Vanessa couldn’t provide him with children, then someone else was going to have to do it.
Fate had seen fit to take two children from him, but now it was giving him another chance – with a baby that was half his, after all. It wasn’t ideal; but it was a solution to a tricky problem. Yes, Mother was right.
‘The baby is mine,’ he said carefully, his eyes fixed on his wife’s face. ‘Darling, you can’t have children. We both know that now, it’s something we are going to have to accept. And Ruby is a single girl of . . . well, of mixed race, with no prospect of marriage, of a proper settled family life, because she’s disgraced herself with this pregnancy.’
